


Blood Loss

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Injury, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-18 10:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus





	1. Chapter 1

Before Athos could even reach for his pistol, Aramis had already thrown his main gauche. The blade stuck quivering in the heart of the bandit. They had thought him dead, along with the rest of his gang, when he had suddenly raised himself onto his knees, aiming a pistol at Porthos' back.

"Persistent buggers," Porthos said while Aramis retrieved his blade, making sure the man was truly dead this time.

Athos nodded to the musketeer. "Your aim is true.”

Porthos beamed as if the observation had been directed at him. "Best in the regiment."

Aramis made a face like he had swallowed vinegar, but Porthos wasn’t watching. He looked west, eyeing the fading rays of the weak late autumn sun suspiciously.

"We should camp here," he said. "It's too far to the next town and this road is treacherous."

A shudder passed through Aramis though his face remained impassive.

"Aramis?" Athos asked, having spotted the reaction. He hoped to pass it off as deferring to a superior rather than concern. Aramis was in command and while Athos doubted that he wanted to stay in the forest, or indeed that it was wise to make him attempt it, this was ultimately Aramis’ decision.

"Of course," Aramis said. "We make camp."

While Porthos strode over to the dead bandits to search for anything of note, Aramis walked to his horse. Athos shifted his weight uncomfortably. His leg hurt.

He kept an eye on Aramis. It was one thing to follow the musketeer’s lead on a simple mission to deliver a letter, but quite another to spend the night in the forest with him. It was well-known around the garrison that Aramis’ mind was addled. He had been on limited duties since Athos joined the garrison.

Aramis didn't retrieve anything from his saddle bags. Instead he leaned heavily against his horse, half draped over the saddle. She was nosing at his back. When Aramis made to stroke her neck, Athos noticed he was shaking. He turned away. Give a man his privacy, some time to compose himself. It was only civil to do so.

He joined Porthos. Together, they turned over bodies and searched their pockets. They discovered nothing of any relevance. There was no evidence that this had been a targeted attack. For all they knew, they might have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Athos had to remind himself that it wasn’t for him to think about such things. He was a recruit. He was to follow directions from his superiors. Aramis would be the one reporting back to Tréville.

When they were done, Aramis hadn't moved. In an instant, Porthos was next to him, talking softly and rubbing soothing circles on his back. Athos needed no explanation. He didn't know much about Savoy, but the general garrison gossip was impossible to escape. The cold, the forest, the piles of corpses. No wonder that was enough to transport a man back there. He'd seen it once. Aramis curled up in the corner of his room, eyes unseeing, body shaking like a leaf. He did not wish to repeat the experience.

"Alright?" Porthos asked. A ridiculous question.

"Of course," Aramis replied, drawing himself upright. Athos had to acknowledge his determination.

Aramis scanned their surroundings. "These rocks should provide some shelter,” he said. “I'll take first watch."

Athos frowned. Bending over repeatedly had aggravated his wound and he could feel warm blood trickling down the back of his trousers. He'd have to see to it. Not here though. Not when he could see Aramis clench his fists and jaw, trying to keep himself from sliding back into the dark hole of terror he had spent months crawling out of. Athos knew what that felt like. He shuddered at the thought of returning to the scenes of his past. He would not wish such torture on the musketeer.

"We can ride on," he said firmly. "We have some light yet and the path is clear. Our horses will find the way."

"But—" Porthos started.

Athos glared at him, willing him to not expose the lie. There was no way they were staying here with Aramis in this state.

“I do not think it a hardship,” Athos said. “An hour or two and we should reach the town. If I recall correctly, there appeared to be a decent inn. May I suggest we aim for a warm supper and an ale there and move on?”

It was no suggestion, at least not in the way of ordinary soldiers. Athos had spent his life making suggestions that were little less than carefully couched orders. He didn't look at Aramis, painfully aware that he was overstepping his mark considerably. As a recruit he was in no position to order a musketeer around. The nobility of one’s birth counted little among these men. Athos liked it that way.

Porthos looked from Athos to Aramis. He was hesitant, clearly not used to making decisions on his own. It seemed simple enough at first glance. They were equipped to camp and had little need to ride on in the dark. Athos’ estimate of two hours was an understatement and they had already encountered evidence of how unsafe this road truly was. There wouldn’t be a decision to make if it wasn’t for Aramis. Porthos cared about Aramis, and when Porthos cared about someone, he wasn’t shy about making decisions for their benefit, as Athos knew very well.

Porthos shrugged. “I’d quite fancy an ale.”

Aramis threw his hands in the air. “Oh fine, if you’re that keen on breaking your neck on the road, who am I to object? Clearly, Athos needs his featherbed for the night.”

Athos did not deign that worthy of a response. He did not appreciate the infrequent allusions to his status. Aramis was no fool. No matter how hard Athos tried to appear to be nothing but an ordinary soldier, he knew that Aramis knew. Probably not the whole truth, but he had a good understanding of class and had sussed Athos’ position relative to his own immediately.

It mattered very little. Aramis was his superior now. Captain Tréville operated a curiously classless society within his regiment, but differences still existed. One only had to look at poor Porthos with his threadbare clothes and the tired nag he rode.

Athos shook his head. The important thing was that they rode on now. _Focus on the task at hand. Don’t let your thoughts stray._ That attitude had kept him somewhat sane so far. Decision made, he mounted his horse. He quickly regretted that as pain shot through his injured leg. His vision darkened. He took a few slow, careful breaths as he settled into the saddle, willing the darkness away. He yearned for a drink.

The others did not notice his predicament. They had returned to their customary bickering, though it seemed a little more tense than usual, a little strained in an effort to paper over the cracks.

“Supper’s on you,” Aramis said.

“Why me?” Porthos protested. “I haven’t got a single franc!”

“Should have thought of that before you neglected to actually kill your man. If I have to do your work, you have to pay my dinner. I don’t make the rules.”

“You do.” Porthos was laughing. “And they usually favour your own purse!”

“What? Like your rules for cards?”

They both laughed and Aramis rode on ahead. Porthos was still chuckling when he turned to Athos, who followed more slowly.

“Did you hear that? He’s calling me a cheat. The bloody cheek of him!”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Athos hissed. This was no time for levity.

“Oh, come on, now.” Porthos nodded at Aramis who was cantering down the path some paces ahead of them. “He’s fine.”

“He’s not. I lied to Captain Tréville for this.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t,” he pointed out. “You didn’t say a thing to Tréville.”

“I should have told him Aramis was unfit for this mission.”

“He can’t stay in Paris forever.”

Athos stared at Aramis’ back. As ever, the musketeer was talking softly to his mare. As if everything was fine. And maybe it was. Maybe Athos was imagining the tightness in Aramis’ shoulders, the way his hands clenched around the reins, the strain in his voice.

There was a rustle in the undergrowth. Aramis jumped. In the blink of an eye, he had drawn his pistol and fired. When Porthos and Athos caught up with him, there was a dead fox on the side of the road.

“What?” Porthos asked. “You wanting a fur coat now?”

Aramis closed his eyes and breathed deeply before replying. “More your style. You always fancy useless pretty things.”

Porthos made some token protest, but Athos focussed on Aramis. His voice was light, but Athos watched him try and fail to reload his pistol before stuffing it back into his belt. His hands were shaking too much. He frowned before shaking his head and forcing his mouth into a smile.

“I’ll ride on ahead,” Aramis announced. With grim determination, he spurred on his horse.

Athos couldn’t believe it. The obstinacy of that man was putting him in an impossible position.

“This needs to stay confined to the garrison,” Athos whispered to Porthos.

He wasn’t sure the other recruit had heard until he glared at him. Without a word, Porthos moved his horse next to Aramis’. Athos brought up the rear, waiting for disaster to strike.

It was irresponsible to let Aramis leave the garrison, much less handle weapons. And yet here he was, not merely riding through the countryside, but also in charge of their little group. Free to command them to do whatever his deluded mind yearned for.

Athos soon had other concerns. His leg wound smarted, the saddle pressing against it with every step of his horse. He was no stranger to pain, but this was decidedly uncomfortable. On top of the injury, he also had a headache. He ground his knuckles against his temples. The usual dull throbbing had suddenly become sharper and more intense. He sighed. He’d be happy to see that promised ale and a bed. He was rather hoping he didn’t draw the short straw of sleeping on the floor.

The setting sun cast long shadows all around them. It became more and more difficult to see as they stumbled over roots and rocks. Athos cursed his own lie about a clear path, but nobody made a comment. They simply slowed their horses and carried on. From the glances Porthos kept shooting Aramis, Athos guessed that he had finally understood the severity of the problem plaguing his friend. Of course he had. They had been fast friends for much longer than Athos had even been in Paris.

Athos yawned. It had been a long day. The musketeers rose early and they had had a long, hard ride even before the ambush. It wasn’t his old life, but Athos saw that as a great advantage. It was this tiring work, the mental and physical exercise, that enabled him to get any sleep at all. It was even more important now that he tried to go easier on the wine. But it had only been a day of riding, after all, so this level of fatigue was unusual. He hoped Aramis would not think it necessary to assign watches throughout the night. He doubted he could take first watch, no matter how hard he tried to stay awake. But at the same time he couldn’t blame Aramis for being hypervigilant, not after what had happened to him. He was just so tired.

“You keeping up?” Aramis asked, turning in the saddle. He let Porthos take the lead and waited for Athos to catch up.

Athos gave him a curt nod. There wasn’t anything to be said.

“He’s a fine horse, your Roger,” Aramis said.

Athos eyed him warily. He didn’t think Aramis was truly in the mood for light conversation.

“You know Porthos was really worried about him, right? That first night you met?”

Athos shrugged. He didn’t remember much of that night. A tavern. Lots of wine. A fight. A dark-skinned man by his side. Waking up in the garrison, Porthos fussing over him, Aramis glaring at him from afar.

Now Aramis was smiling at him. Athos searched his face for the fear he knew was hidden behind the mask. Sure enough, Aramis’ smile never reached his eyes.

“Couldn’t understand much of what you said, but there was always that name. Roger. Roger all alone. Roger missing you…”

Athos grimaced. He hated to think he had made such a scene.

“Porthos thought you had a kid, maybe,” Aramis continued. “A friend, somewhere out in the streets. He was very relieved when you went to retrieve your friend from an inn’s stables the next day.”

Fortunately, the path grew too narrow to ride next to each other for a while, and Athos was spared a response. But as soon as there was space, Aramis was onto him again.

"You've had him long then?" he asked, nodding at Roger.

"He was bred—" Athos stopped. It was quite unnecessary to go into detail and further highlight the differences between them. "I rode his mother," he said instead. Which wasn't  a lie. He must have ridden her at some point, like he had most horses on the estate. A particularly sharp pain made him close his eyes. He opened them again quickly. He had no need for images of the estate.

Aramis gave him a strange look, but asked no further questions.

“It was different with us, you see,” he said, patting his horse’s neck. “Angelina stole me.”

How could a horse steal a musketeer? Before Athos could ask, Aramis had moved on to discussing the mare’s favourite foods, leaving Athos to ponder his cryptic statement.

Stolen. Sweat beaded on Athos’ forehead. While it was quite impossible for a horse to steal a man, the reverse certainly happened. Had Aramis truly admitted to _stealing_ his horse? Horse theft was a major transgression. He had seen men tortured for that.

Aramis kept up his chatter for a bit, but Athos didn’t listen. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It really was no wonder he felt so affected. If this was true, he rode with a thief and was under the command of a common criminal. Tréville would hear of that. It was a stain on the reputation of the regiment to harbour such a man, an affront to the king to have a horse thief among his personal guard.

Eventually, Aramis left him to his brooding and rode up ahead, next to Porthos. Athos’ stomach heaved watching the tender look Porthos gave the musketeer. The thief. He did not blame Aramis for his trauma, for the affliction that made him unfit for duty for so long. But he would most certainly judge him for disrespecting another man’s property.

Athos fell back further, glaring at Aramis from behind. He loosened his scarf and undid a few of the buttons on his doublet. He was getting rather worked up about this, drenched in sweat despite the seasonable chill in the air.

But a horse. A fine horse like Aramis’ mare was worth a small fortune. For some poor ordinary man maybe a genuine fortune, the means to turn his life around. Horse theft was among the most serious crimes in the kingdom, and for good reason.

Maybe Aramis hadn’t really stolen her. Athos wiped away more sweat. Maybe requisitioning might be the more accurate term. Requisitioned as part of an urgent mission. Chasing enemies of the crown, his own horse shot from underneath him… Athos took a deep breath. That was a genuine possibility. And given the circumstances, returning her might not have been feasible. Yes, that must have been it. Athos swallowed. His throat felt parched. He’d have to obtain the full story behind this. On further reflection, it seemed unlikely that Captain Tréville would tolerate a thief in his ranks.

Aramis held up his hand and Athos’ train of thoughts came to an abrupt halt along with their horses. He copied Porthos, reaching for his pistol and scanning the forest around them while Aramis slid from the saddle.

“Keep an eye out.”

At Aramis’ command, Porthos nodded to Athos, indicating that he would watch their left and Athos’ should take the right. Athos peered into the dark. Beyond the path, the gloom was impenetrable. His eyes stung and he struggled to see. He wiped sweat from his brow once more, trying to remove it from his eyes. When that did nothing to improve his vision, he narrowed his eyes, forcing them to focus, but the mottled grey shadows of the trees wouldn’t stop shifting and swaying. Still holding his pistol in one hand, he dropped the other to his saddle, digging his fingers into the sturdy leather to ground himself.

“A large group of riders,” Aramis said from where he was crouched on the ground. “Twenty at least.”

Porthos swore under his breath. Athos could not blame him. They weren’t exactly desperate to encounter such a large group, particularly given the earlier ambush.

“Today?” Porthos asked.

“Give me a moment. Stay vigilant.”

Athos tried, but no matter how often he wiped the sweat away, his eyes wouldn’t work properly. He needed… just a little. Just enough to steady his nerves. Relinquishing the death grip on his saddle, he reached for his hipflask. Shame flashed across his mind, but he pushed it away. He could not afford such sentiments, not now, not when the others’ lives might depend on his ability to function. Let them judge if they saw, let them comment once more. Maybe he was just that, the drunk that Aramis had called him for so long, but this was no time to think of that. He brought the flask to his lips. He needed this.

No relief came. His hands were shaking as he tried in vain to angle the flask properly. No drop, no sweet burn of brandy in his throat. The flask was empty.

Oh. Of course. An attempt—misguided it seemed—to better himself. He had only allowed himself one small measure of Armagnac for this mission. And he drank that reward after they had delivered the letter.

Not that it mattered. He could just… he would… He breathed deeply and bit down on the soft flesh of his cheek. He could do this. He didn’t need… they always said he didn’t need… he didn’t. He just… The shadows were dancing, moving all around and he needed… he needed a rest. He had to… had to call for a halt, had to tell them, had to… A breather, merely a breather and he would be fine again. He would… he would call for a halt.

“They’re old,” Aramis said. “Three days at least.”

Athos could see the musketeer get to his feet, but somehow his voice seemed dulled. Nevertheless, he admired his skill. Moments like this showed Aramis for the elite soldier he was, past transgressions and current illness notwithstanding.

“No danger then?” Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head. “All is well.”

His legs didn’t seem to agree. Athos watched him stumble and barely hold himself up, clutching his horse for support. The mare snorted as her master’s fingers clawed into her mane.

Porthos gripped his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it. He left his hand there, a support, tethering Aramis to reality. Athos knew that grip.

“Not long now,” Porthos said.

Athos heard his voice from far away, so far… so… He breathed deeply once more, trying to clear the black spots from his eyes. Of course Porthos was right, it wasn’t long now. There was no reason… He sheathed his pistol, fingers almost as clumsy as Aramis’ earlier. There was no reason at all. He could not call for a halt now. There was no way he would subject Aramis to the forest any longer than strictly necessary. They would ride and ride quickly, helping them both. Once at the inn, he could get a drink and they could rest. Aramis could put his mind at ease and Athos his uncooperative body.

_All was well._

He clung to that thought. Not long now, a few more miles and then he could rest. Rest… he was so tired now, he was… tired. Indeed, he might have fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for the constant discomfort. Every one of Roger’s steps sent a jolt of pain through his leg. A blessing in disguise, maybe. It would not do to fall from his horse now and delay them even further. He couldn’t… not with Aramis…

Aramis. Athos focused his thoughts on Aramis. The musketeer rode at the front now, with Athos bringing up the rear. Whenever the path widened enough to allow Porthos to ride next to Aramis, Athos caught a few kind words between the two friends. Porthos asking, Porthos reassuring. And Aramis, Aramis was calm. Athos could appreciate that in a man. Surety, even in face of his own suffering. Aramis was… he was decisive for sure. Once he had a target, he was not easily deterred. He led them through the forest at a steady pace. Athos had to admit that he could not have ridden at that tempo on his own. The way it was, he followed the others, giving Roger the freedom to do as he pleased.

Athos’ heart was intent to keep pace with their swift ride, hammering in his chest as if he himself was running through the night. Similarly, his lungs seemed unable to draw in sufficient breath. He tried to control his breathing, to not pant like a dog.

Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t that warm. Yet his body had a different perception. He was sweating copiously, like this was a hot summer’s day and they had been fighting for hours. He yearned for a drink, but more than that for a rest. For a chance to sleep and recover. To sleep to not… feel like this.

Step after step, pain upon pain. In his leg, in his head. In his stomach as well. Bile rose with the slightest movement. And he hadn’t had a drink. He hadn’t had a drink since they’d delivered that letter in the early afternoon. He wouldn’t be sick and let them think he was drunk. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t. Porthos’ disappointed look… again. Aramis… again… and he couldn’t… not when Aramis… not again.

At some point, the trees had disappeared without Athos’ noticing. It was odd to suddenly find himself riding between fields, the space around them so wide, so open. So much… and he… so little. Athos felt like he was one with the darkness, endless and everywhere and—

“You keeping up?” Porthos’ voice. Somewhere ahead. Dark figures. Aramis and Porthos, of course.

“Yes.” Athos gave him a nod. He shouldn’t have. His eyes, his brain… he wasn’t sure which, but something in his head kept repeating the movement over and over again. It hurt his head and… his stomach… he was so… He wasn’t going to be sick.

Not long now. Not far. They were almost there.

An ale.

A featherbed.

They were asking if he had changed his mind or if he was still eager for the inn and he said yes. Yes to that last part. Anything. Anything to move on, to arrive. He needed a bed, feathers or no. He needed to get off his horse before he fell off. He needed to rest. He simply needed rest.

He needed…

The world swam, swayed…

It was dark. And yet the sweating never stopped.

It had to be cold. And still…

His horse stopped, quite suddenly. There was light and… voices. Aramis and Porthos and… someone else. The inn, of course. They must have reached the inn. He hadn’t noticed. But he was… they were here now, finally. He was glad. Aramis was safe and he… he could rest now. Tension flooded from him and he struggled to catch it, hold on to enough of it to keep him going, to keep him from relaxing and falling off.

He tried to listen to what Aramis was saying but couldn’t make out the words. He understood the tone though. This was Aramis charming the innkeeper. This wasn’t Aramis the broken wreck of a man any more. This was Aramis the musketeer, the libertine, the legendary sniper they spoke of in hushed tones around the garrison.

Porthos said something, softly, just for Athos’ ears, but Athos couldn’t hear. His heart was pounding. There was a ringing in his ears and he knew he was about to pass out. He’d had practice with that, too much. But he didn’t… he didn’t want to… not now. Porthos smiled, nodding at Aramis. So fond, so kind. And Athos knew he would… if he passed out, Porthos would think it was the wine again and he’d be disappointed. And Aramis… he’d be so scared.

Athos bit his cheek again, willing himself to focus on that pain, to stay conscious. He wouldn’t pass out. Only a little further. Off his horse and into a room, a bed. Then he could rest.

_Nearly there now._

It was abhorrent to be so weak all the time. He was a recruit, pledged to the king’s elite regiment and all he had done so far was collapse at his companions’ feet. Not today. He wouldn’t embarrass himself again.

Porthos dismounted and Athos figured he should too.

But then what?

He didn’t trust his leg to carry him for however long it took Aramis to secure them a room. Not right now. Not until this weakness had passed and the ringing in his ears… He could hardly hear himself think.

A bench stood outside the inn, a few feet from their horses. Not far. He could sit there. He could wait, could maybe pretend there was something wrong with his boot. He could gather his strength there.

He lifted himself with some difficulty, then removed his right foot from the stirrup. Such a simple action should not feel so arduous. As soon as he lifted his foot, the ringing in his ears intensified. Roger snorted and shifted and that didn’t help at all. Athos’ vision darkened further. He couldn’t even… he wouldn’t…

_Not long now._

He could make it to that bench. It wasn’t far.

He swung his leg over his horse’s rear and suddenly all the blood seemed to rush down and out. Out and away and his head… his eyes… his leg. Oh, his leg.

The pain.

There was pain.

Darkness. And falling. He was falling.

“Athos!”

Porthos somewhere, far away… And the pain… the darkness… falling…

No.

Not like that. He wasn’t…

_Not long now._

He could…

Porthos… Aramis… He would…

But the pain… It was so dark and he was still falling.

There were hands as well. Kind and soft and… Voices. Far away. He tried to listen, tried to hear. Voices…

His name. The new name. _Athos._ Porthos calling Athos. And he was getting closer. And Athos… Athos could… There was Porthos and there was pain. And the darkness, but Porthos… The darkness… holding him, but there was also Porthos. Porthos was holding him.

He opened his eyes and there was Porthos. Porthos’ doublet in front of his eyes. Dark leather and… darkness…

“Leave him to me. See to the horses. I’ve got this.”

And Athos agreed. Porthos had him. Quite securely. But why was Porthos… was he talking to Aramis? Why was he ordering him around? That was odd. Not like Porthos at all.

He tried to make sense of that, but the darkness came back in waves. Waves on a beach, a little further each time. The waves built. More darkness. It was almost there now, almost at his face, but Athos resisted. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t… Drowning. He wasn’t drowning. He could swim, he could resist the waves, the darkness. He could…

Porthos’ body shifted. Maybe he stood up, maybe he walked. Athos was jostled in his arms and then…

Pain.

So much pain.

His leg was on fire.

His leg…

Someone screamed.

He heard Porthos curse and then…

The wave…

The pain…

The darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

It was so familiar. Athos on the bed and Porthos struggling to remove his boots, trying to be gentle, but grumbling under his breath. Everything hurt. He might have fallen. Down the stairs again, maybe. He felt bruised. Or maybe they had been in a fight. Yes, he thought he remembered a fight. Swords and shots and a thrown dagger. He thought Aramis was there, but that couldn’t be. Aramis didn’t go out with them. Athos’ brain sloshed around his skull like the wine in his stomach.

Wine.

It was always the wine…

That didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel… he _wasn’t_ drunk. That curious thought swam in and out of focus a few times. He wasn’t drunk. He was certain of it. How very odd. But then… how was he here? And why… why was he so poorly? Why would Porthos be taking care of him like that if he wasn’t drunk? Why…? Did Porthos know? Athos tried to focus. Tried to… tried to maybe… He opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in his room. He knew his room, knew the view of the ceiling from his bed. This ceiling was higher, the room bigger. A large room… a room at an inn. The inn. They had been riding to the inn. It all came rushing back. The letter, the ride, the mission… And he hadn’t felt right since the ambush. He remembered that. It wasn’t the wine, he knew it wasn’t.

He could see Porthos. He seemed to have removed Athos’ boots and trousers now. Porthos was putting him to bed, but he wasn’t even drunk. He had to… He tried to make his tongue move. It felt large and cumbersome in his mouth, dry and heavy, but eventually he forced it into action.

“I’m not drunk.”

His voice sounded harsh and raspy.

Porthos’ eyes flew up to meet his.

“I’m not drunk,” Athos repeated.

“I know.” Porthos’ reply was brisk. Athos could see the muscles in his clenched jaw tick.

Porthos didn’t believe him. He’d only said it to calm Athos down. He didn’t believe him, he thought he was drunk. Always drunk. And Athos wasn’t… he wasn’t…

Porthos had taken his shirt off. And that wasn’t right. He never did that. Athos would know. They’d been here so often, when Athos was actually drunk. But why would Porthos…?

Then Athos spotted it. Porthos’ shirt was balled up on the floor. Balled up and… bloody. Porthos was bleeding. Athos looked up at him, but couldn’t find a wound, only smooth skin shining golden in the candlelight.

What had happened? He wanted to say something, wanted to ask, but the thought wouldn’t coalesce into words. He was so… he wasn’t sure why… because he wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t right either.

He watched Porthos take off his belt as well. And why would he do that? Was Porthos getting ready for bed? Surely, he’d want some food first. He had to pay, that’s what Aramis said… Aramis? Was Aramis? The blood…

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said.

Athos wanted to ask why. But then… Hands on his leg. Porthos lifted his leg from the bed and it was agony. The fire, the burn. The smooth leather of Porthos’ belt on his bare skin and then Porthos pulled. The belt tightened until Athos felt like it was going to snap his leg clean off his body. He reared up in bed. Tears flooded his eyes. He wanted to scream, but there wasn’t a sound, nothing he could hear above the rush of blood in his ears.

Porthos pushed him back down, his face so close to Athos’. Athos blinked away the tears, tried to see, tried to breathe, tried to hear the words on Porthos’ lips.

“…blood… had to stop… the wound… your leg…”

Fragments of sentences washed over him, struggling to surface over the roar in his ears. Blood… and a wound… A wound to his leg, he remembered that. The ambush. But it was just a cut to the back of his leg, nothing serious. Just his leg, not his stomach, his lungs, his head, or even his shrivelled heart. He was fine.

Suddenly, Porthos threw a blanket over his legs and stalked across the room. The door opened and Aramis stepped in, carrying one of his bags and a steaming bowl that Porthos took from his hands. Maybe he’d finally brought dinner.

“How is he?” Aramis’ tone was clipped.

Porthos blocked the door, didn’t let him step inside. “Can you get some blankets? He’s cold.”

Athos wondered if he was. He didn’t think so. He remembered sweating.

“Let me in.”

“I don’t think—maybe you could…”

“Step aside before I make it an order.”

Athos shuddered. Aramis sounded… dangerous. He wondered why, why Aramis was so… Aramis had been upset, he remembered that. It had been hard. The forest, the ambush, the shots and the bodies. Aramis wasn’t well.

“Aramis, please… Don’t do this. You can’t.”

Do what? What was Aramis doing that Porthos didn’t like?

“I will be the judge of what I can and cannot do.”

Then Aramis was next to him.

“Look at me,” he said.

Athos tried, but Aramis’ face was fuzzy, swimming in and out of focus. He could see Aramis smile and wondered if it reached his eyes.

“Very good. I’m going to touch your throat now, all right?”

“Yes,” Athos breathed.

Aramis put one hand on Athos’ shoulder and with the other felt his throat. “Your heart is beating very fast. You must be exhausted.”

Athos was. He wanted to tell Aramis that, but the effort seemed too much.

Aramis’ hand left his shoulder and rested lightly on his stomach.

“Shhh,” he said. “Try to slow your breathing. Deep breath. All the way to my hand.”

Athos tried, but breathing was hard.

“Breathe, Athos. Breathe.”

Why was Aramis telling him that? He didn’t need to… he knew how to breathe. But somehow it felt comfortable to be told. Like settling into Captain Tréville’s orders instead of thinking about everything himself.

“Well done. I’m going to touch your face now.”

A finger brushed his lips, his cheek, and then a hand covered his forehead. It was so ridiculous, so tender. He’d been held by Porthos, but nothing like this. And Aramis… never. He wasn’t one to caress anyone. His mistresses maybe, but not some recruit. Not him.

“You’re very cold.”

Athos wanted to tell him that he wasn’t, that he had be sweating the entire time, but Aramis’ hand did feel very hot against his skin. Hot and dry, and he realised just how much he’d been sweating.

“We’ll get you some more blankets in a moment, warm you up a bit. But I’d like to look at your injury first.”

“I don’t think that’s…” Porthos’ voice sounded oddly pressed. “Can you ask them to send for the surgeon maybe?”

“I did ask,” Aramis said. “There isn’t one.”

Porthos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Aramis smiled.

“Not that we need one. You’re in the best hands already. We’ll have you up and fighting fit in no time.”

Athos wanted that. He didn’t like this, this helplessness.

“I’m not drunk,” he croaked.

Aramis chuckled. “Oh I know that. I wasn’t going to start throwing bottles again. You’re doing so well, Athos.” Aramis’ thumb rubbed a small circle in his hairline. “We’ll have a look at that leg and then you can sleep. How does that sound?”

Good, so good. He couldn’t wait for that. It would be so easy to sink back into the darkness, to forget the pain, to let go. It would be so good… so…

“Athos!” Porthos sounded scared and Athos couldn’t figure out why. It worried him. What was there to be scared about?

“Try and keep your eyes open.” Aramis sounded fine. “Can you tell me how you feel? That would really help.”

Athos wanted to help, he wanted to say… He could keep his eyes open at least. He could do that. He looked up at Aramis, who was still smiling, and at Porthos’ head behind him. Porthos’ face was all eyes, so big and scared. Athos wanted to tell him it was all right, that there was no reason to be afraid.

Aramis lifted the blanket covering Athos’ legs.

“Aramis don’t…”

“Porthos, we’ll take care of this. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, I promise.”

That didn’t seem to put Porthos at ease and Athos understood why. Aramis had seen many things, many things he shouldn’t have.

“Maybe let me…”

 “Shh, keep looking at me,” Aramis said to Athos, ignoring Porthos completely. “Keep your eyes nice and open. I’m going to have a look now. Keep your eyes on me. That would help.”

Athos did. If it was going to help Aramis, he’d keep his eyes open all night. He could do that. He could help.

A small noise escaped him when Aramis’ hand ghosted over his skin. The touch was so light and yet…

“Remember your breathing,” Aramis said. “All the way to my hand.”

"Are you sure you can..."

"I'm a musketeer, Porthos.” Aramis’ voice had gotten sharper. “I know our line of work and all that it entails. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."

“But what if—"

 “Thank you, Porthos. You’ve done very well. Can you help him turn over now?” Aramis put his hand on Athos’ shoulder again. “I can’t see properly like this. It’ll be much easier on your stomach.”

If Aramis thought that, then Athos agreed.

“Deep breath,” Aramis said.

There must have been some silent signal, some sign that Athos had missed. He took a deep breath and then their hands were on him and they were lifting him, turning him, and the pain…

“Breathe, Athos.”

He was breathing. It was so dark. His eyes… He needed to keep his eyes open, but the darkness… He couldn’t… He had to… _Keep your eyes nice and open._ Breathing. Falling. Eyes. He could do that, he could… It was dark. He was falling. But Aramis… And Porthos. Porthos was worried. Worried about Aramis. About… Athos had to… had to… to…

When he woke, Athos was on his stomach with his head turned to the side, though he didn’t try to open his eyes and see. He could feel. There were blankets covering his upper body. He wasn’t sure if he was hot or cold, but he trusted Aramis and Porthos to know. He could hear their soft voices, a steady murmur somewhere far away.

There was pain as well, but that did not seem to matter much. It was there, in him, around him, everything was pain, but it just was… It didn’t require him to intervene. He felt unable to move and his thoughts were still slow, but at least his mind was clearer now.

Breathing. He remembered that. He tried to breathe like Aramis had said. Breathing deep into his stomach, he noticed his awkward position. They seemed to have stuffed pillows under his hips, raising his bottom into the air. It was utterly degrading. More so when he registered the touch of a wet cloth on the bare skin of his buttocks and at the top of his thighs. Half-naked and at their mercy. The indignity.

He tried to protest, but all that came out was a sigh.

In an instant, there was a hand brushing the hair from his face, then a voice, Aramis’ voice.

“Just cleaning you up,” he said.

Cleaning him up. Athos didn’t want to think about what that implied. In front of Aramis as well. A musketeer and his commander on this mission. 

“There’s quite a bit of blood, my friend,” Aramis continued.

_My friend…_ such a strange use of the word. They weren’t of a comparable social class, nowhere close enough to be friends. And Aramis wasn’t his servant either. One could sometimes consider a loyal servant a friend. But Aramis? Athos had nothing to offer him. He had no standing within the garrison. Despite his current limitations, Aramis far out-ranked him. And he had Porthos. Aramis had no need of another recruit. No use…

Athos recognised the beginning of the usual dark spiral of his thoughts and tried to steer away from it. No descent into madness tonight. Instead, he latched onto his companions’ voices, trying to make out the words as they spoke to each other.

“There’s so much blood,” Porthos said, his voice shaking.

“You have to suture it,” Aramis said. “He’s already lost too much.”

“And then he’ll live?” Porthos sounded so desperate and Athos wondered why.

“He might.”

“Might?”

“With that amount…”

“Tell me he’ll live!”

Aramis sucked in a breath. “He’s very weak. But if you don’t stitch it, he’s sure to die.”

Dying. Well… that wasn’t such a bad thing. It sounded quite appealing. For one, nothing would hurt anymore. In his body, his mind… He could just not _be_ any more. Death sounded good, welcoming even. Death… Such a familiar thought. Anne would be there and Thomas… His wife, his brother… his life… He could let go and be free. He could drift away and return… be with them again, back in his old life, happy and whole. Flowers and fields in spring. Anne’s hair and Thomas’ smile…

But…

Would they want that? Want him? For all his yearning… He’d failed them. Had failed to protect them, to care… He’d killed them. They… They would hate him. He… He wasn’t… They would all be in hell for their actions. Visions of their joyful reunion turned sour. Anne running towards him across the flower-strewn fields… The looming shadow of the tree he’d made her gallows darkened the memory… The darkness… the darkness of the house. Always so dark and grand… and in the darkness, a figure greeting him. Thomas. Lifting his hands, stretching his arms… bleeding. So much blood. And he was going to die…

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go back there. He had escaped that hell. He wouldn’t, not ever, set foot into Pinon again or see La Fère. He never wanted to see that accursed place again, the graves and their ghosts… He wouldn’t. If death was to be with her again, Anne, the wife he hadn’t known, the monster he hadn’t stopped… If death was that, then he would never die.

“I can’t!” Porthos’ voice cut through the darkness. “The stitches don’t hold. I’m making it worse.”

“You’re not.” Aramis’ voice was calm with not even a hint of the panic that was so evident in Porthos’.

“It’s not working!”

“It’s a deep cut. One layer at a time. We’ve got plenty of catgut.”

“What layers? I can’t see layers!”

“You start deep and then you move up. It’s easy.”

“You do it then!”

“I can’t. It’s one thing to fire a musket, but my hand isn’t steady enough for this.” For the first time, Aramis sounded sad.

“Then he’ll die!” Porthos was shouting now and Athos wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t, that he’d made up his mind and that he didn’t want to die.

“I can’t,” Aramis repeated quietly. “But you can.”

“How?” Porthos sounded close to tears.

Athos heard one of them take a deep breath.

"I will tell you,” Aramis said, completely calm.

"There's no time for teaching. Athos..."

"I'll tell you every step. I’ll show you, Porthos. Be my hands."

The hands… so often he’d seen Porthos be Aramis’ hands and his legs. Fetching and carrying at first and then more recently… So often he’d heard Aramis talk Porthos through a sword drill, had seen him correct stances and mentor in taking shots his own hands would not allow him to complete… Athos respected him for the way he taught, even if he had doubts about whether Aramis would ever be or indeed had ever been the highly skilled musketeer the garrison gossip made him out to be. Maybe there was time for teaching now. Maybe Porthos would succeed… Maybe Athos would make it, with them and because of them

Pain spiked in his leg and swept through his body. Athos tried to breathe. Deep breaths, like Aramis had said. _Deep breaths._

“Very good,” Aramis said and Athos was pleased that he was praising him. “Here now. Then tie it off.”

Porthos grunted a response. Of course, Aramis was speaking to him.

“That’s it,” Aramis said. And whatever _that_ was, it flared like fire in Athos’ leg. He tried to breathe. Keep breathing. To his embarrassment, a low moan escaped him.

“How the hell is he awake?” Porthos asked.

Aramis didn’t reply. Instead, Athos felt fingers card through his hair. “It’s all right,” Aramis said. “It’s just me. I’m sorry I’m hurting you, but it’s just me…”

Athos found that odd. It was clearly Porthos causing the hurt, not Aramis. But Porthos… Porthos was Aramis’ hands… Aramis’ responsibility. And Athos knew what that felt like. Responsibility…

“Not long now, my friend. You’re nearly done and then you can rest.”

As much as Athos liked the sound of rest, it also felt frightfully close to that eternal rest he didn’t want. But the pain… He tried to move, tried to get away from it.

“Shh, calm now,” Aramis said. “Can you keep still for me?”

Athos wanted to say yes. He was no stranger to pain. He could keep calm, he could stay still. He’d had long years of practice with that.

“Hold him down,” Porthos said. “If he moves…”

“I don’t think he will.”

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t die and he wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t do anything. Not unless they told him to.

Aramis was talking again, but Athos struggled to make out the words. Still, he clung to the low murmur of his voice. Occasionally, words surfaced above the din. _Stitches_ and _catgut_ and _mop up the blood_.

The blood. Athos wondered if Aramis should be doing this. Porthos certainly seemed to think he shouldn’t see Athos like this. But Aramis was fine. So calm and assured. His voice was low and steady, talking to Porthos the same way he’d talk him through a sword routine. Porthos had told him that Aramis had taught him how to ride. Some feat that was, with Porthos still not trusting any horse beyond his own placid gelding.

And now this. Aramis was talking in the same quiet voice he used for his nervous mare. Athos didn’t mind that Aramis was teaching, that Porthos was learning, and that his skin was the blackboard for those early attempts. He focused on being good. Staying still, staying conscious, and staying alive. He could do that.

Aramis’ voice drifted away. Athos was quite comfortable like that. Everything around him was soft and quiet. Whatever noise there was, was dulled. Whatever he felt, too. It wasn’t the usual haze of wine. He felt like he was floating, like a boat heading towards the horizon. There were waves, waves washing over him… Dark, cool waves…

A particularly sharp pain took Athos by surprise. He whimpered.

“Shh,” Aramis said. “Nearly there now.”

He sounded far, far away. Athos was falling once more, further and further away from them, into the darkness. And suddenly it didn’t feel good. Suddenly it was deeper and darker and he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be there, with them, but the waves carried him along. Falling, floating… Far, far away until Aramis’ voice was only a whisper on the breeze…

“Here, take my hand…”

Fingers closing around his. He realised he had a hand then. For so long, his attention had been focussed on his leg. Warm fingers were squeezing gently.

“I’ve got you.”

Like a length of rope thrown to a drowning man, Aramis’ hand pulled him in. He was still floating, but he stayed closer now. He couldn’t understand a single word, but Aramis’ voice was still there and sometimes a grunt or sigh from Porthos as well. They were both there and so was Athos. There, with them. And that felt right.

Floating, floating… there were waves of cold, of darkness, and of pain. But there was also Aramis’ hand. His anchor. He couldn’t go too far, not with Aramis holding his hand. He didn’t want to go, because he knew where he’d go. Back to that place. Back to her. Back to a life where he wasn’t a recruit, where he didn’t get told where to go and what to do, where he didn’t have this…this… He’d never be cut down in an ambush, would never find himself in some inn, injured without a qualified surgeon to take care of him, but he didn’t want that other life. He just wanted to stay right here, with them.

“Sleep.”

Sleep… he was so tired. He wanted to sleep. But he wanted to stay. He couldn’t let go. And in sleep he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t be able to control his thoughts, his breath… In sleep he would go… go to that place… Sleep, sleep was dangerous.

His hand was squeezed, fingers entwining with his. Another hand in his hair, on his forehead. A big hand, and warm.

“Sleep now. We’ll keep watch.”

They’d keep watch, they’d keep him safe. They’d gotten him so far. Maybe, just maybe, it would be all right. Maybe he could let go, could sleep and wake up. The waves came, lapping at his restraint, slowly pulling him deeper. They were soft and warm and dark, so wonderfully dark… And somewhere in the dark, the words…

“We’ve got you, my friend.”


	3. Chapter 3

Athos woke with a gasp. How he had gotten any sleep at all was unfathomable. His heart was pounding as if he had been in a fight and he drew in air in erratic pants. And yet he was still in bed, having done nothing to warrant such exhaustion.

“Slow your breathing if you can,” Aramis said.

Marvellous. Next he would instruct Athos to breathe with him like a governess nursing a sickly child.

But Aramis did no such thing, instead occupying himself at the small table next to the fireplace on the far side of the room. It was a simple room, illuminated by candles and dancing firelight. The furniture was sparse and non-descript, but at least the place seemed clean. There was a pile of discarded clothes and sheets next to the door, stained dark with what Athos assumed was blood. He spotted Porthos, slumped over in a chair and fast asleep.

“We wore him out,” Aramis said with a smile.

“He sutured my wound,” Athos said slowly, remembering.

“Yes.” Aramis looked over at Porthos with great fondness. “He saved you. I’m sorry for the pain I caused.”

“But—”

“Shh. I’d rather you remembered it like that. Porthos would never hurt you.”

“Oh…” Athos grappled with that. He wasn’t sure if Aramis was taking credit for something he hadn’t done or if he was leaving the credit to Porthos while absolving him of the guilt he’d surely feel.

“Can you swallow?” Aramis asked, apropos of nothing.

Athos frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“When the body is… in great pain, men often can’t. I didn’t dare to give you anything to drink earlier, but you must be thirsty.”

Athos hadn’t thought about that before, but now that Aramis mentioned it, he did indeed notice that his throat was very dry. “I assume so.”

Aramis held out a bowl. “The innkeeper gave us some broth.”

“Give her my thanks.” Athos attempted to sit up in bed, but hissed through his teeth when pain flared in his leg.

“Let me help.” In an instant, Aramis’ hands were on his shoulders. “Hold your leg.”

Athos did, surprised by the sheer amount of bandages under his braies. His leg was thick and clumsy in his hands, almost a foreign object to him.

With Aramis pulling and Athos pushing with his uninjured leg, they manoeuvred him into a sitting position against the wall. Athos tried to heed Aramis’ earlier advice and slow down his breathing, attempting to manage the pain as best he could. Aramis waited patiently, perched on a low stool. Thankfully, he kept his silence.

Athos gestured for the bowl and Aramis handed it to him. Athos tried to hold it, tried to close his hands around it, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Only Aramis’ quick reaction prevented the broth from spilling. Athos stared at his arms, lying limp on the blanket.

“May I?” Aramis gestured at the bowl, then at Athos.

Athos averted his eyes, overcome by embarrassment, but did not decline. Aramis made no comment. He simply tipped the bowl against Athos’ lips and let him drink. Small sips. Slowly, very slowly. Athos focused on swallowing, not wanting to look at Aramis. Even that simple action tired him. Everything was so laborious, so exhausting that night.

“Some wine?”

Athos’ eyes snapped up. “I don’t need wine.”

Aramis smiled. “Just a little, to get your strength back.”

Athos pressed his lips together and shook his head. He knew Aramis’ stance on his drinking very well and he would not give him that excuse to look down on him. Not that night.

“I mean it,” Aramis said. “You need some fluids now and this will fortify you.”

The wine smelled nice, rich and heavy. And Athos wanted… anything to keep up his strength, anything to not be so weak any more. Aramis let him drain the whole cup, once again in small, small sips.

“Why are you doing this?” Athos asked when Aramis set the cup aside.

Aramis looked surprised. “I do nothing out of the ordinary, my friend.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your friend.”

Aramis frowned. “Why not?”

Athos looked away, looked at Porthos, looked at all their bloody shirts. “I have nothing to offer you.”

For a while, Porthos’ gentle snores were the only sound in the room. As the silence lingered, Athos’ awkwardness grew.

“Does he never wake up?” he asked, directing his irritation elsewhere.

Aramis chuckled. “Rarely. It worried him when he was looking after me. It would worry him now if he knew.”

Athos had nothing to say to that. Again, they sat in silence. Athos felt sleepy, but knew that lying back down would require Aramis’ aid. He had no desire to ask for it.

“I was nothing,” Aramis said. “Back then, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. I could only scream. I truly had nothing to offer.”

“You were still a musketeer.”

“Was that what you saw?” Aramis let the question hang between them. “And when you first saw me I was… much improved. Is that what you see now? A musketeer? I know you see me when I fumble.”

“I saw you in the forest.”

“I know. You always do, Athos.”

“You’re still a musketeer. You have that commission.”

“For how much longer? You must wonder. When will Tréville take it from me?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“And why not? It’s been half a year now and I’m hardly back to normal. And without my commission, what would I be?”

“Your experience, your status… you have many things.”

“My status lies in my commission,” Aramis said. “And my experience… is that what you want from me, Athos?”

“I do believe it is what mended my leg today.”

“We’ll leave the mending to God. I was merely a tool. It’s not that, Athos. It’s not about the clothes you wear or the things you know. Look at Porthos. There’s barely enough material left in his shirts to patch them together and he doesn’t wear that pauldron and yet… It’s about who you are inside. It’s about your kindness.”

Athos bit down firmly on the inside of his lip. He did not appreciate the course of this conversation.

“And again, I have nothing to offer in that regard,” he said, keeping his voice tightly controlled. Kindness had not been part of his upbringing and he thought it unlikely that he would add it to his arsenal any time soon. Kindness was weakness and there was no space in life for that. Kindness was also too close to love and he knew what happened to those he loved.

“With respect,” Aramis said. “I disagree.”

If anything was tedious about being an ordinary soldier, it was the way in which people felt free to disagree with him. Athos had never come across that before, had never had his every statement questioned. Surely, he could at least be trusted to know his own mind.

Aramis put aside the crockery and washed his hands in a bowl by the fireplace.

“I would like to look at your bandages before you go back to sleep,” he said, his voice bearing no trace of their disagreement. “If you can lift your knee a little, we might not have to get you onto your stomach again.”

Carefully breathing through the pain, Athos managed that much. He gritted his teeth while Aramis probed the bandages, pressing at various points, then slipping his finger underneath.

“They aren’t too tight?” Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head, not entirely trusting his voice.

“Can you move your toes?”

Athos obediently wriggled his toes. It was painful, but then again there was very little that wasn’t.

“I’m glad,” Aramis said and smiled at him.

“I won’t die then?” Athos asked pointedly.

Aramis stared at him and Athos met his gaze. He would not pretend he didn’t know what they had said.

“Very well.” Aramis nodded. “I won’t make promises. Wounds get infected, fevers kill, bodies weaken. Your life’s in God’s hands. But for now, the sutures hold and there seems no lasting damage to your leg.”

To get him lying flat again was a protracted and agonising affair. By the end of it, Athos was reduced to panting again, pain threatening to overwhelm him. His vision darkened at the edges once more.

“Let me elevate your legs,” Aramis said. Athos barely registered the additional hurt.

“I promise, it helps,” Aramis assured him as he bedded his legs on what seemed to be a pile of pillows and clothes.

As odd as the position was, gradually Athos could feel his vision clear. His breathing and pulse eventually settled into a more ordinary rhythm.

“Why both legs?” he asked.

“It’s not so much about the injury,” Aramis said. “Simply makes it easier for your heart. Imagine having to carry water up the stairs all the time. Much easier to have it flow down to where it’s needed.”

Athos wasn’t sure how he felt about having his body described as a bathtub, but decided to let it rest for the moment.

“You know a lot about wounds,” he said instead.

Aramis shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of wounds in my time.”

“It seems more than a casual acquaintance.”

Aramis looked at him. “We are soldiers. We all need to know how to stitch a wound.”

“You guided Porthos.”

Aramis glanced over at the man still snoring in the corner. “I couldn’t ask for better hands.”

“Nor he for a better teacher.”

Aramis lowered his eyes. “You observe a lot.”

“You are a physician.”

Aramis huffed out a laugh. “I’m not.”

“You were. Before…”

“I’m nothing but a soldier.” Aramis held out his hands, the tremor barely perceptible now. “Always have been, even when these were still sure. I’m no learned man, Athos.”

“But a skilled one.”

Aramis stared at the hands that lay in his lap again. Athos gave him his time. When Aramis looked up, he was smiling broadly.

“Exceptionally so, yes.”

“It is your kindness,” Athos observed.

“Yes,” Aramis confirmed after a brief reflection. “I think it is. And… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me… this.”

“This?”

“The chance to… to see it again, to…” Aramis breathed in deeply and ran a hand through his hair. “I was the regiment’s medic, once. And I thought that… that I had lost that. And maybe I have. Maybe my hands will never… But I can still do this, I can… I know enough to be of use.”

“You doubted?” Athos asked.

“We all do.” Aramis looked him firmly in the eye. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he did truly doubt. His skills as a medic, his place among the musketeers, maybe even his place in the world at large. There was no use for injured soldiers, Athos knew that. He’d spent his life driving past crippled beggars in his carriage and had brushed their grimy hands from his boots. Their fate had gained a new poignancy now, being a soldier himself and seeing what soldiering did. He knew that if this wound crippled him, he’d have options, but he also recognised that men like Porthos and Aramis did not.

“Sleep now,” Aramis said, spreading another blanket over Athos. Athos wondered how they ever did. How could they find rest, knowing what they did? Did they go into fights hoping that at least death would be swift? That they wouldn’t linger in anguish? That they wouldn’t end up… like Aramis?

“You think too much.” The ghost of a hand lingered on his hair. “We’re here. I’ll keep watch over you both.”

Maybe that was it. The kindness. The friendship. Being there and keeping watch. Knowing that someone was there.

 

*****

“Don’t put weight on that leg. I’ve got you.”

He certainly did. Athos wasn’t standing so much as he was draped over Porthos. His back leaned against Porthos’ broad chest and his fellow recruit had closed his arms securely around Athos’ midriff.

Athos freely acknowledged that he was utterly unable to stand on his own, but he would much prefer to be tortured than to have help with this particular matter. In front of him, a chamber pot stood on a stool, waiting to be filled. An impossible feat.

“It’s fine,” Porthos assured him. “I’ve done this for Aramis plenty.”

There was an affirmative noise from Aramis who busied himself with something on the table. Athos could imagine the truth in that, given Aramis’ lengthy malaise. He could also imagine the embarrassment it held.

“You’ll do it for me one day,” Porthos continued. “We all do. It’s just one of those things.”

One of those things, not being able to take a piss on his own.

“I’m not looking,” Porthos said, tightening his hold.

Athos sighed. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. He looked over at Aramis and found him still bent low over the table.

“You shouldn’t be upright for so long,” Aramis warned.

Yes. Athos had noticed that himself. He focussed on the task at hand. Tried to ignore Porthos’ warm presence. Tried to ignore Aramis trying hard to look busy. Tried to ignore that he was doing this in front of his companions. Tried to… do it.

“I can’t.”

“It’s fine, Athos.” Porthos said. “Just relax.”

“No, I mean… I genuinely can’t. There’s nothing there.”

Aramis’ head shot up though he remained studiously turned away.

“When did you last relieve yourself?”

Athos fully expected his head to burn as his face blushed, but nothing happened. Maybe his body was more comfortable around them than his mind. He swallowed heavily.

“Around midday.”

Aramis hummed thoughtfully. “You need to drink more.” He waved a hand in their direction. “Abandon that mission for now.”

Aramis tactfully waited until Porthos had settled Athos back onto the bed before staring at him intently, undoubtedly noticing things about him that Athos didn’t know himself.

“Your body is not releasing any liquids because you’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said. He poured water into a cup and Porthos helped Athos drink from it.

“What does that matter,” Athos said.

“It matters quite a bit.”

“It wasn’t even a serious injury.”

“Athos!” Porthos cried, sounding oddly outraged at the simple observation.

“It very nearly killed you,” Aramis said.

Athos huffed. He had had… certain thoughts the night before, but in the light of day they seemed quite ridiculous.

Aramis moved the still-empty chamber pot and sat down. “Have you ever been injured before?” he asked.

“Of course.” Athos remembered grazed knees as a child, welts from his father’s punishments, then later the cuts and bruises that came with clumsy sword practice.

“Seriously injured?”

Athos avoided looking at them. “I know a serious injury when I see it.”

“Then why did you not tell us about this?” Porthos’ voice was uncharacteristically sharp.

Athos would not let himself be the accused here. Surely, he had been uncomfortable enough throughout all of this. “And trigger the next panic for the sake of one small nick? I think not.”

“There wouldn’t have been any panic if you hadn’t tried to die on us!” Porthos shouted.

Aramis held up a hand to stop him.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said.

“I think I understand very well,” Athos said. “Better than some jumped-up field medic, for sure.”

“How dare—”

“Porthos.” Aramis’ voice cut off  Porthos’ protest like a knife.

“You saved his life and he…”

“It’s not common knowledge.” Aramis remained composed. “I assume you think of serious injuries as those to the head, the heart, lungs or stomach?”

“Of course.” Athos was unsure where this was leading. He did not consider himself an appropriate judge of what knowledge was commonly held, but certainly this was a basic understanding of medicine that everyone shared.

“And rightly so,” Aramis confirmed. “But others can be just as deadly.”

“Spare me the dramatics,” Athos said. “It was my leg. Men have legs amputated and stay alive.”

“After their wounds are sutured, cauterised, and bound.”

“Look at this!” Porthos shoved dirty, blood-stained linens at Athos until Aramis pushed his arm away.

“Blood loss kills,” Aramis said. “We don’t know how or why, but we know that it does.”

“Of course it does. Everybody knows—” Porthos interjected.

“Not everyone has been in battle.” Aramis tone softened as he turned from Porthos to Athos. “Most think it’s healthy to bleed. Learned men and surgeons and all.”

Athos nodded. He’d always had exquisite medical attention and all their physicians had stressed the benefits of bloodletting for a wide range of maladies. Bleeding did not only cleanse wounds, it also restored balance to the body.

“I disagree,” Aramis said. Athos smirked. Of course. A soldier who by his own admission had no medical training at all knew better than the scholars.

“I’ve seen it so often,” Aramis continued. “Men with seemingly minor wounds. Their heart beating, their breathing unimpaired… then a little later they are dead in a sea of blood.”

It was difficult to not be affected by the evident pain in his voice.

“How was I to know?” Athos said briskly. He hated his own incompetence and ignorance of the basic facts of soldiering.

“You weren’t. You are learning these things. But we would have known if you had told us.”

“I am no needy child and perfectly capable of looking after myself.” Athos did not appreciate the insinuation of feebleness.

“Let us help.”

Help. They helped so much and yet he was so weak, so incredibly inadequate. Athos: the noble prick who had never been hurt, who knew nothing of the basic truths of soldiering. Athos who couldn’t handle the first injury he received, who hadn’t even realised that this would be a regular feature of his life now. He looked up at these men, saw the scars on their faces and knew there were so many more, painting patterns on their skin. Each the memory of a wound, of potential death… He shook himself. These thoughts lead nowhere. Nowhere good.

“You were somewhat preoccupied,” Athos said, trying to sound superior rather than vulnerable. To sound like he didn’t need help with absolutely everything.

“There is no higher priority than your life, my friend.”

“What would you have done then, in the forest?” Athos asked, venom in his voice. “Would you have cried on me? Screamed that blood back into my leg? You were afraid before you ever knew of my injury. I didn’t dare to ask for a halt.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Porthos thundered, but Athos imagined the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. Maybe he remembered the fox. The fox that could have been an innocent child. Porthos knew he was right. Athos rounded on him instead of Aramis who still looked rather serene.

“If it wasn’t for your misguided attempts to prove he was well, none of this would have happened. You make me complicit in your lies and then lay the blame on me when they collapse around you. This behaviour is despicable.”

Almost as despicable as Athos being even weaker than Aramis. Weaker than a man who hadn’t been fit for duty for half a year, whose mind was addled… but still a man who could and did help him.

“Enough.” Aramis’ command cut across any reply Porthos wanted to make. “I would much rather have spent the night in that forest than watch you fall from your horse, insensible to the world.”

“Like you could have.”

“That was not your choice to make.” Aramis said. “I can do many things for the life and health of a friend.”

“I do not need to listen to this from a man who shoots a fox because he cannot distinguish the animal from his demons.”

“Then listen to it from your commander.”

“You have not earned that term.” Athos sneered. He would only take so much military hierarchy from a man who clearly wasn’t fit for it. It was not in his nature to bow to his inferiors.

“Tréville has.”

Captain Tréville. Athos’ imperious thoughts ground to a halt.

“He will have a thing or two to say when he hears that you needlessly endangered your life and nearly lost it in the process.”

He would indeed have something to say and Athos knew what. He’d been told, had been warned that very first day… Captain Tréville had been willing to accept him as a recruit and to conceal his identity, under the condition that he would not use the regiment as a way to suicide. The threat of a burial in shame held little meaning to him now, but the threat of exclusion, the loss of the only stability, the only purpose he had in life…

“I see you understand.” Aramis’ voice was even, but his eyes were sharp, boring into Athos’, seeing things that Athos would prefer to keep hidden. They looked at each other for a long time, barely registering Porthos fidgeting in the background.

“He does not take a threat to the lives of his men lightly, no matter where that threat comes from.” The meaning in those words cut deep. No matter where that threat came from. No matter if it came from a man’s own hand. Athos stared at Aramis. He understood, then, that he wasn’t the only one facing that struggle.

“You need to let us know,” Porthos said, with more kindness than Athos deserved. “You endanger everyone when you hide an injury.”

When you try to do well… when you try to help, to protect… when you try to be more than you really are…

“Like Aramis,” Athos said thoughtfully.

Porthos’ brows drew together. “What? No. Aramis is—”

“Exactly like that.” Aramis smiled. “You’re right. I made the same mistake.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Porthos said, squeezing his shoulder.

Aramis put his own hand above Porthos’. The tenderness was unbearable. “I did,” he said. “I wasn’t well. From the ambush onwards, there was a growing panic in my mind and I could not fulfil my duty.”

“You did admirably, given the circumstances,” Athos said.

“I didn’t ask if either one of you had been injured, I neglected to check. I let my need to reach the inn cloud my judgement.” Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh. “I never even managed to reload my pistols.”

“You weren’t alone,” Porthos insisted.

Aramis looked up at him. “No, but I needed to tell you so you were aware of my limitations. You couldn’t have guessed that I was unable to defend myself.”

“I saw that you couldn’t reload.” Suddenly, Athos was painfully aware of his failure to act upon what he saw. “I should have spoken out.”

Aramis smiled at him. “You shouldn’t be forced to make guesses about my well-being. If you do, you’re bound to get it wrong. I need to tell you, reliably so.”

“We all do.”

“Even when we think it’s a minor injury.”

Athos lowered his eyes. “Even when our weakness is embarrassing.”

“Never that, my friend.” Aramis reached out a hand for him, but Athos didn’t take it. Instead he plucked idly at the thick bandages around his leg.

“This is our life then,” he said. “Blood loss and injury.”

“It won’t remain your only one,” Aramis said. Athos smiled ruefully at that. It certainly wouldn’t. He’d seen Aramis bathe. The longest-serving among their trio sported a veritable labyrinth of scars.

“But we’re here for that,” Porthos added.

Aramis looked over his shoulder at him. “I wanted to keep this light and tell him he’d still be as handsome as ever. Scarred buttocks and all.”

Porthos chuckled. “You can be here for ogling those. But we’re both here for taking care of him.”

“And of you,” Aramis said softly. “You carry a lot of weight.”

“Broad shoulders,” Porthos said with a shrug, but Athos could tell that the words affected him. For all the kindness he gave, he seemed unused to receiving it. Athos sympathised.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I would be honoured to face future misfortune with you.”

Porthos grinned and gave Aramis’ shoulder another squeeze. There was a slight glint of moisture in his eyes. Athos gave silent thanks for the lack of liquids Aramis had diagnosed him with. Those two were utterly unbearable.

“As much as I wanted to be alone for all eternity,” Aramis said with a wink. “Porthos here sticks to you like a rash.”

“That had not escaped my attention,” Athos said archly.

Porthos shook his head. “You can’t do that, be all alone. You need someone to look out for you.”

“To suture your wounds,” Athos added.

“To hold you and feed you and sit with you. To pick up the pieces when you break,” Aramis supplied.

“You’re not broken.”

Athos watched Aramis carefully when Porthos said that. Saw the moment he closed his eyes, saw the way he leaned into Porthos’ touch. Finally, Aramis looked up again, looked straight at Athos. There was understanding, the shared knowledge that they were broken, but that they were also here and determined to stay. But there was also a silent agreement that Porthos was not privy to. The agreement that when they teetered at the brink, they would give each other the assistance they needed to stay.  


End file.
